Stay Interesting

by Jonathan Goldsmith

  “Okay, Johnny. I will be on my best behavior. I’ll be good, Johnny.”

  It was opening day, and there was a traditional celebration that involved the firing of a cannon. We walked in and saw Commodore Royce, the club president, who came over to greet us. He was wearing white flannels and the obligatory navy blue blazer, the epitome of class and gentility. Just as he stepped within earshot of us, Fern took over, and in his loud, booming voice, as the commodore leaned in to shake our hands and welcome us, he said, “And that, Johnny, is how I fucked a water buffalo right in his ass.”

  Let It All Hang Out

  Fernando left me with so many lessons, particularly the importance of chivalry. He’d invented himself to be a noble, but he was committed to playing the role on and off the screen. Naturally, he’d been married a few times, once to Arlene Dahl (who mothered his son, Lorenzo Lamas), whom he called Paperhead. She was suspicious that he was cheating on her, which of course he was. He told me about a curious incident.

  “Johnny, she was having me followed,” he said with a mysterious, pointed inflection, pulling his chair closer to mine.

  Back then, to get a divorce you had to prove a spouse had committed a foul deed. There were a number of them she could have chosen from. She was suspicious, so Fern was convinced she’d hired a private detective to catch him in flagrante. It was New Year’s Eve on the night in question, and the weather had been terrible. A storm front was coming in, and Fern had stayed home for the evening.

  “Johnny, I am alone in my mansion, and I, Fernando Lamas, am sitting by the fire naked and drinking a fine Courvoisier,” he told me.

  Listening to the sounds of the storm, naked in his chair, he heard a noise. It was coming from the tree outside his window.

  “I know there is some poor motherfucker outside, and he’s up in a tree somewhere,” he said. He suspected the man in the branches was the private detective his wife had hired, presumably staking him out with a camera to get evidence of Fern with another woman.

  “It’s pouring and I feel sorry for this poor bastard,” he said. “So I, Fernando Lamas, throw the front door open to the tempest. I say, ‘You poor motherfucker, it’s New Year’s Eve, come down from wherever you are if you’re not a coward and have a drink with Fernando.’”

  Outside, there was silence. Then came the noise of movement in the branches. He watched the detective climb down carefully from the tree. Moments later, the drenched private eye appeared sheepishly at the front door.

  “You want me to take my shoes off, Mr. Lamas?”

  “That’s perfectly all right, my friend. Come in and join me.”

  It takes a special kind of guy to sit naked in front of a fire and invite the private detective hired to spy on him in for a drink on New Year’s Eve. He was part gentleman and part rascal, though perhaps more of the latter.

  • • •

  I scattered Fernando Lamas’s ashes off my boat after he died, accompanied by his family and some friends. He’d been suffering from back pain and thought it was just a nerve or muscle sprain from playing tennis. He refused to see a doctor and insisted on holistic remedies, only to learn when the pain became too much that he had cancer. I can still see it, his embroidered slippers moving gracefully across the teak deck of my boat, him drinking tequila and me listening to tales from his endless library of exploits, a treasure trove that I would mine long after he was gone.

  Quality, Not Quantity. But, Also, Quantity.

  Fernando’s fearless approach was inspiring to me. I saw how being so blunt could make strangers laugh, and with laughter and directness came a unique, perhaps devilish, way to seduce women. I’m proud of my track record. I’m also not proud of it. I didn’t know then about myself what I know now, and here is what I’ve discovered: The attention, approval, and warmth I always craved from my mother and never received forced me to look for approval in other places—namely, from women. My struggling career was also a part of it. If I couldn’t conquer my professional life, I had to conquer something.

  I was hungry too. I had a lovely dalliance with Jack Warner’s much younger girlfriend, and with one of Groucho Marx’s wives. Two congressmen’s wives (both Republican), six vegetarians, nine Buddhists, eighteen nurses, sixteen teachers, eleven subs, countless receptionists (even one at an abortion clinic, where I’d come with an aspiring starlet), and one runner-up to Miss Florida, as well as many extras, thirteen players, and one Academy Award winner. I broke Henry Fonda’s mistress’s bed. Some of the women I pursued were married. Sometimes I’d get lucky and one woman would refer me to another. Many are still friends, even after so many years.

  Georgia

  She was like a Skidmore girl. She wore penny loafers and a Catholic schoolgirl’s pleated skirt. I remember her long legs. She was married to a famous orthopedist to the stars. We ended up in the bathroom of her house, on the floor. Hungry.

  Susan

  That was the code name I used for her. Susan’s real name was Tina Louise. We met at the Actors Studio, a famous acting workshop and the home of method acting. While we were rehearsing for a scene, one thing led to another. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever been with.

  She lived off Coldwater Canyon. We always met at her house. She’d leave a message for me—“It’s Susan”—and I’d park behind the garage. As I quietly tiptoed through the foliage, the gardeners used to smile at me knowingly. I’d slip into her boudoir through the side door. She’d be waiting naked in the bed. She was beautiful to behold. Simply beautiful.

  I really felt rather proud of myself. She was so desired after playing Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. I would be the envy of all, if they’d known. But it was our wonderful secret. And definitely good medicine for an out-of-work actor. She had such great stamina I was afraid I would have a heart attack by the third or fourth round. I even thought about my obituary. UNKNOWN ACTOR FOUND DEAD AT YOUNG AGE. Surely I’d be mentioned by name this time, though.

  “Tina,” I’d say, “I’m going to have a heart attack.”

  She refused to stop. She was a true beauty—tall, elegant, with a cool distance and complete, unfettered surrender.

  Afterward, we’d take a shower together. We talked about everything. My wife, her boyfriends, the theater. Sometimes she’d bring me bourbon in bed and allow me to smoke in her boudoir, even though she didn’t approve of smoking. One time, when we couldn’t go to her house, we found ourselves in the back of my truck, just down the hill from Marlon Brando’s house. Tina was a special friend. Those were good times.

  Elaine Stritch

  She was Ms. Broadway. A huge international star and very flamboyant. She was larger than life, her whiskey voice unforgettable. I remember her walking her dog, staggering through numerous Hollywood dawns before heating leftovers for a champagne-accompanied breakfast in my humble flat. She would wear a pair of high heels, a mink coat, and nothing underneath. She really looked a bit out of place in the semi-slum I lived in, especially in her sunglasses when the sun wasn’t completely up. I met her at a party with Gerry O’Loughlin, my dear friend who introduced me to Leo Penn, a prolific television director and Sean’s father—which led to a lifetime friendship. He also sponsored me to audition at the Actors Studio. I was just a kid, and I took Elaine back to my apartment. Once, at four in the morning, she made me lamb chops with Roquefort sauce. It was very charming, we laughed often, and we liked each other very much. It was so good, and it was the second time I had it that way. The first time was with Jacqueline.

  Jacqueline

  She was kept by a famous newsman in a nice apartment around the corner from the Hickory Pit in New York City, a block from the United Nations, where I was living with John Phillip Law, my fellow acting student at the Neighborhood Playhouse. She was petite, elfin, as only a Parisian could be—a gorgeous little thing with a beautiful French accent. I was nineteen. One day, she said, “Would you deliver to my apartment?” I didn’t go t
o school or back to work for two days. She made me lamb chops with Roquefort sauce that, I must admit, will always be better than Elaine Stritch’s. She complained about American women and had a charming name for her vagina. She called it her zizi.

  Camille

  When I was feeling lonely and unfulfilled, I could always go to the studio. Make the rounds, try to make them laugh, and meet up with a couple of the secretaries. At Universal one day, I had a great tryst on the African Queen, lying quietly on an empty soundstage, where it had been for years. Monte Davis was a big producer, having worked on many shows, and he was married to a big star. He had a French secretary by the name of Camille, a very classy Parisian woman. We would frequently have lunch at the commissary, which I couldn’t have gone to myself. Downstairs, we had a love nest—a tiny room behind the telephone bank where we would get it on. Her murmuring in French and the sound of the studio hubbub just outside of the door was a delightful break in an empty afternoon looking for work.

  Three’s Company, a Freeway’s a Crowd

  Mona and Debbie

  And speaking of the French: I came to meet and date a beautiful French model. Actually, she was from the Bronx. I’ll call her Mona. She’d strangle me if I told you her name, but here’s what I can tell you: She dated the Aga Khan, was a leading model in Paris at sixteen, became a millionaire on her own, and was kept by a cowboy movie star in Hollywood. We had a convenient arrangement. I’d park the garbage truck outside her apartment near the corner of Olive and Fountain, a beautiful Spanish building, and slip up into her apartment. I would take the servants’ stairs, as I was fresh off the job and looked it. The apartment had thick old walls. A rough texture. Period furniture. When I came over, she would cook me a steak. We’d watch soap operas and then go at it like rabbits in her bed.

  Deborah was Mona’s girlfriend. Deborah was married to a well-known director in Florida, and when she came to Los Angeles for a visit, Mona threw a party for her. Mona would throw a party for anyone—any excuse to further her career. I showed up to the party and met Deborah, and we had that magical click. We partied all night, dancing, laughing, feeling no pain. After the guests had left, Debbie and I were deeply in love. Or lust, at the very least. We were all in our underwear dancing around, just floating and high and feeling great for four o’clock on a Monday morning. Soon even my underwear was off. I had always wanted to have a threesome, and, given the circumstances, I thought I had landed the perfect opportunity.

  Mona was cleaning up and I followed her into the kitchen.

  “Mona,” I asked. “Debbie has come over thirty-two hundred miles from Florida to be here, and as a welcome, I would like to borrow the spare room. Would you mind?”

  I knew she wouldn’t, since Mona always had at least three lovers at all times and never got jealous anyway.

  “No, darling, but do me a favor first,” she said, scrubbing a few dishes, as the maid had left.

  “Happily,” I said.

  “Take out the garbage.”

  “Mais certainement,” I said, grabbing the trash bag and feeling so proud of myself. I had done it! Oh boy! Here I was, dancing around with these two beautiful girls, hugging them both, kissing them and watching them flit about in their underwear. It was the best of beautiful Hollywood. With the garbage bag in my hand, I opened the outside door and headed for the incinerator, so excited for the conquest to come, feeling so complete.

  The door shut with an ominous click. Oh fuck. I could feel the cold tiles of the terrazzo floor under my feet, the breeze between my legs. I was stark naked. Turning the handle of Mona’s door, I found that I was now locked out.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Mona said, giggling in her faux French accent.

  “Jehovah’s Witness,” I said. “Let me in!”

  I was standing, waiting. I banged. Behind the door, I could hear my lovelies dying with laughter.

  I was getting nervous. The sun was coming up. I was seeing this sheet of orange light reflecting in the windows of the sleeping building. Dawn broke, the sun rising over Hollywood and starting to break up the dark, purple clouds. I could hear the sounds of tenants opening windows, walking their dogs, and greeting the new day. Oh Jesus. Under one of the many stucco archways, I saw a dog and a leash, and a pair of guys taking little Fifi for a walk.

  I jumped behind a bird of paradise. What was I going to do? Would Mona and Debbie let me back in?

  I raced around to the living room window and banged at the glass. I could see them both inside, still in their underwear, holding each other, stoned, howling with laughter, tears running down. Then I heard footsteps and turned.

  A neighbor appeared. A man. He was heading to work, just like everyone else.

  “Morning,” I said, saluting him before I raced out into the street to get to my car. Oh God. Where had I parked? Was it down on Fountain? Or was it on Olive?

  Shaking off the hangover, I saw a damp newspaper—the sprinklers had caught us both—grabbed it, and used it as a loincloth to cover my manhood. Then I set out to hunt for my car, hopping from one bird-of-paradise bush to another. The street was becoming busier.

  “Good morning,” I said to one neighbor with a smile, springing behind the foliage.

  “How are you?” I said to another, ducking behind a palm tree. Finally, I spotted my Impala convertible, which I had purchased for three hundred dollars because the roof didn’t go up. I was so relieved to see my car, but then it hit me. I had no keys. No wallet, no shoes. I was naked. What was I going to do?

  Aha! The hide-a-key! I wondered if it was still there. I was always losing keys, so I stashed a spare under the bumper. I darted out to the car and reached under the rear bumper. Eureka! The key was a bit rusty, but it worked. I retreated to the relative cover of my uncovered convertible Impala.

  I turned over the key and headed back to the frog farm, grinning and chuckling to myself. I thought, Oh boy, wait until I get to the gym. Wait until I get into the steam room and tell the guys about Mona and Debbie . . . Even though I had missed my opportunity, I was very proud of myself. I had a great story.

  I pulled onto the freeway, the sun now up and the morning commute beginning. I took in the view of Los Angeles, hoping that the other drivers wouldn’t look over and take in a view of me, when I heard a startling sound.

  Putter.

  The car jerked.

  Putter, putter.

  I looked at my gas gauge. Below empty. Damn it. How long could I last? Two miles? A mile? I eased up on the gas. This was problematic, as I was going uphill. My exit was the next one: Barham Boulevard. If nothing else, I could get out and sprint to a pay phone at my coffee shop and make a desperate call. But whom would I call? And with what money would I make the call? I didn’t have a penny, let alone a dime.

  Then the car jolted, suffered a final twitch, and croaked in the center lane of US 101, the Hollywood Freeway. Just at the beginning of rush hour in Los Angeles. There I was, stopping traffic in the road-rage capital of the universe, completely naked.

  The other cars backed up, horns blared. They inched around me, screaming, giving me the finger. The pileup was instant, enormous. I was sweating. How am I going to get out of here? Ditch the car and run? I could see the headline: UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR [maybe this time I’d get some credit] SPRINTS NAKED DOWN THE 101, ABANDONS CAR, CHASED BY POLICE. But I was immobilized. What could I do?

  I turned on the radio—maybe the music would relax me—and that’s when I heard the report.

  “Massive traffic jam on the 101 and Hollywood Freeway at Highland Avenue,” the radio announcer said.

  Time seemed to have stood still. Then I heard the sounds. Heavy, swirling, thumping sounds. It was a helicopter, looming above me. Here was our eye in the sky.

  On the radio, the traffic man was updating the report by talking to the pilot, who seemed to be having a very good time at m
y expense.

  “I found the problem,” he said. “Naked man, middle of the freeway.”

  I looked up at the helicopter and waved. In the meantime, I was sweating profusely. I wondered how to get out of this trap. Nobody to call. No money. Just imprisoned in my roofless Impala.

  Then I heard the sirens. I looked in the rearview. A police car was pulling up beside me on the service road. An old cop with a handlebar mustache made his way to me in the barely cruising traffic, craning his head into the Impala. I smiled back at him, naked as the day I was born, with a ragged, soggy newspaper over my lap.

  “Son, have you been drinking?” he asked.

  “Yes, Officer, I have been, or I was, but I’m completely sober now. My girlfriend Mona and her friend Debbie, they locked me out of the apartment . . .”

  “That’s fine. We’re going to take you someplace where you can rest, son.”

  Rest? What does rest mean? A hospital? An insane asylum?

  “I-I-I don’t need a rest,” I told him. “I need a push. I live just over the crest of the hill . . .”

  But the cop had heard it all. He turned his head back to the squad car, surrounded by a sea of furious drivers.

  “Fred, get the blanket,” he hollered to his partner.

  The blanket?

  In the rearview, I watched the officer walk up to my car, blanket cradled in his arms. I imagined the straitjackets, padlocked doors, white walls. Holy shit!

  But wait. This guy . . . this cop . . . he looked . . . familiar.

  Oh my God. I knew him! I had just finished playing in a television episode that ended with, what else? My death, this time by electrocution. This dear officer was one of the technical advisers on the show.